


The Howling Commandos

by DarkBlue



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Sgt. Fury and His Howling Commandos
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Origin Story, Framing Story, Marvel Universe, Origin Story, Period Piece, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Story Arc, Story within a Story, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:33:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8341771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBlue/pseuds/DarkBlue
Summary: Beginning when the advertising Captain America goes behind enemy lines to save his best friend Sergeant J. Barnes (a.k.a. Bucky) [as seen in Marvel's cinematic universe "Captain America: The First Avenger"], it follows a semi-canonical comics/cinema mashup of the Howling Commandos (lead by Steve Rogers in lieu of Nicholas Fury I) in their WWII adventures. It may/may not time jump to the future to follow the progress of all involved, but does lead to some interesting interactions between their numbers, including picking up strays along the way (James "Lucky Jim" Howlett from Weapon X), and wondering if the nefarious John Wraith (Nazi commander) really is using "gifted" Jewish children in a special behind X doors weaponry program. Starring fun spots such as: pre-Wolverine, pre-Sabretooth, pre-Magneto, Peggy Carter, Daniel Sousa (who does not know of Peggy), Nick Fury's father (one of those wacky 'this-character-has-lived-way-too-long-and-went-from-white-to-black' so I made him his father), Wilson Fisk's grandfather, and of course Soviet and German mutant/weaponry programs (allusions to HYDRA and the Red Room).





	1. A Kid From Brooklyn

**Author's Note:**

> This is an idea that's been banging around my head forever. A lot of the crossovers and allusions owe their thanks to the "Ultimate X-Men" cinematic universe (ran from 2001-2009, created by Bill Jemas, Joe Quesada, Mark Millar, Adam Kubert, Andy Kubert) and was frankly brilliant. Everyone should read it. The X-Men are my favorite comic series, but the 1940s are one of my favorite time periods. When the comics revealed that "Lucky Jim" Howlett was one of THE founders of Captain America's/Nicholas Fury's "Howling Commandos" I was itching to read that story (yet un-created). I wanted to see all the times Magneto sneered at Wolverine ("We've met before, you know") and when Captain America recognized him. ("Jim?" "Do I know you?"). I want wiped Bucky to look up and say, "you seem familiar..." and Logan just to shake his head: "I don't remember." Bucky's little smirk of understanding. For Bucky's arm to be the prototype of Wolverine's adamantium skeleton. For the surgery to leave their notes and be snatched up by Howard Stark - for Tony to find those notes years later and use Soviet data to create Iron Man during the time the Iron Curtain was in place. Just....gah the coincidences and multi-origin stories and crossovers are everything I love.
> 
> Also romance.....probably. Romance like Steggy or Stucky or more? Idk! I like it all. I like it at different times. I am not picky. I just love Steve Rogers. We'll just see where it goes. I'll retag this if it gets smutty. Also "graphic depictions of violence" is marked just as a trigger warning. I'll try to post trigger warnings in notes if I think of any; want to play fairly with my readers. Otherwise, I think most people over the age of 13 will be able to read this without real shock or horror; just let me know if it gets too dark. Otherwise, have a great time, and review!

“Come on, sir!” Steve protested loudly. He was still in his embarrassingly flashy uniform, but he had picked up an abandoned bomber jacket. The girls were off somewhere, probably being clamored after by the boys no older than eighteen. Steve had always been small and shrimpy for his age, but sometimes he forgot that he was an old soldier in a lot of ways. Especially now, when he looked more like a man than anyone besides the commanding officers in their 40s and 50s, grey hair and disdain dripping from their epaulets.

“Look son, there’s nothing to be done,” grunted Colonel Phillips. “The 107th went behind enemy lines. We’ve lost all radio contact with them. It’s been over a week. They’re presumed dead by military law. My hands are tied.”

Colonel Phillips resumed typing with two fingers on the typewriter. There was a secretary hovering somewhere in the tent, her eyes bulging as she watched the painful process of the words:

WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT

Peggy was in the tent too. She was standing against the wall, but apart from the occasional: “Steve,” she was silent. She was watching with serious dark eyes, hands folded behind her back in a silent show that she wasn’t going to interfere for Phillips. Distracting as the thought was, Steve found that at times he really, really loved her.

“Colonel, please,” Steve begged. “My friend. My _best_ friend. He’s in the 107th. He’s still out there! He’s still out there and he needs our help! They all do!”

“What’s your friend’s name?” grumbled the Colonel. “Maybe he wasn’t with the company.”

“Bucky. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.”

There was a long pause before the Colonel Phillips could find the right name on a list. He looked up; his face was creased in all the right places, but Steve could see the empathy wasn’t really there. He had done this too much. He had lost too many men to really feel the true loss of one. Of _someone_.

Steve gritted his teeth and stormed from the tent. There was a two second delay before he could hear the sensible stomp of leather behind him.

“Steve,” and it was her again. In the same, calm, reassuring tone. “Steve, slow down. You’ve got to be smart about this.”

He ignored her. He was heading toward the motorcycles. He liked motorcycles. Bucky was repairing one at home, and Steve felt he was qualified at least enough to get to the place he wanted to go.

“Steve, _stop_.” There was a hand on his arm, and though she weighed next to nothing, he still whirled around, teeth gritted, glaring at her surprised face.

“Peg, come on,” he snapped.

She flushed. “That’s Agent Carter,” she corrected angrily.

“Then that’s _Captain_ Rogers.”

“You never made it past Private."

“Captain America then, I don’t care.” He shrugged her off this time and kept walking.

“Will you _listen_?” she hissed, and he was surprised she hadn’t gone shrilly.

He kept walking. “I’m listening.”

“I’m saying-“

“You’re saying to stop.”

“Stop walking!” she jerked his arm again. “Not stop you from going!”

Steve was so surprised he did stop, and she barreled past him on her own momentum. He used her arm to pinwheel her around until she was facing him; a very clumsy dance.

“You’re extremely bad at that,” she told him coldly, rubbing her shoulder.

Steve grimaced a tiny smile.

“Look. Have you ever met Howard Stark?”

“The guy with the flying car?”

Peggy was momentarily distracted. “What?”

Steve flushed, embarrassed. “Nothing. No. I haven’t met him.”

“Well he’s gone into military contracting for the War-“

“Of course he has.”

“Will you listen? He’s _here_. Now. Delivering new plans to senior leadership.”

“And you’ve met him,” Steve couldn’t help his voice dripping with disdain at any mention of officers, regardless if he liked Peggy or not.

“Yes, I have,” she said coolly. “And he has a private plane.”

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe,” shouted Howard Stark over the loud thrum of the engines, “that I got to meet Captain America!”

Steve ducked his head more firmly into the ruff of his bomber jacket. He understood why the pilots wore them. They were warm in the cool night air, and he was embarrassed to be so duck-footed and idiotic around a suave millionaire genius like Howard Stark. But he figured it would be rude not to respond: “Likewise!”

Howard laughed. “I wish!”

Steve felt like an idiot. It was like wishing the waiter a good meal. It didn’t help that Peggy had tucked her smile into her shoulder as she checked the loose lines of rope on the bottom of the plane.

It had been an awkward plane ride, to say the least. Howard was a great flirt, and though Peggy seemed mostly unaware of his advances, if not downright cold, there were a few moments – something about _fondue_ – that made him feel like he hadn’t a fighting chance in the world with Carter. Steve didn’t know what fondue was; if he found Bucky ( _alive_ was a word his mind wouldn’t dwell on) he would ask him. Bucky would like Peg. They were both good people.

“We’re coming up over the drop zone,” shouted Howard. “Did you give him his radio?”

Peggy held up a black portable radio, and then flicked on a green light. “Do you see this transmitter?” she had to yell too, and her hair was whipping into her face and mouth as she spoke while Howard opened the back of the plane. Steve wished she hadn’t been so distracting as he tried to focus on her words instead of how much he wanted to kiss her. He knew it was irrational and masculine and would make him one of those guys he had _hated_ when he was smaller. So he refrained; it would only make the ride back with Howard even worse for her, especially if they really were fondue-ing. He didn't need a show of hyper-masculinity to win Peg. She had told him from the start she hated that.

“Do you understand?” yelled Peggy.

“Transmitter. You’re my ride,” echoed Steve.

“Don’t lose it!”

“I won’t.”

“We’ll get you as soon as you call,” and her voice sounded a little more…desperate? Afraid? Like she was sending a man to his death?

Steve shoved the radio into an inside pocket of the jacket, over his heart. “I’ll call.”

“Make sure you call right away. Tell us how many planes you’ll need to get you all out.”

“I promise.”

“Don’t make us write one more letter for you,” she warned him severely.

Steve gave her a crooked smile. “They’d have nobody to send it to.”

Peg opened her mouth a moment, but closed it with a shake of her head. “Good luck,” she wished him instead. Her lipstick was a little smeared from pulling hair from her mouth. He looked at it a long moment, and then jumped from the plane.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t hard to find the place. There weren’t a lot of compounds in the woods, so he figured he had the right one. He waited for cover of night in a foxhole he dug himself using nothing but a piece of wood and his bare hands. It should have taken him an hour, but he was a super soldier, right? It hardly took five minutes to get it deep enough to wedge into, and he slept in ten minute, heart-pounding shifts. When he was awake, he would check his compass and point himself back towards the invisible territory line that would mark American-held soil.

At midnight, he snuck into the compound. He had hoped by waiting until proper night, any leftover Nazis might be in bed. He tried not to make any suspicious noise. There would be plenty of time for theatrics after he found the 107th. If he were honest with himself, he would consider the mission a success if he only found Bucky. He tried to encourage that train of thought to finding anyone, but he couldn’t.

The compound was darker than he had expected; the power had been shut off for all except the guards making rounds. He found two of them and quickly clocked their heads together. It was a bit cartoonish, but it got the job done properly. He heard a rustle of paper as one of them fell, and pulled an English newspaper from under his arm. It was turned to the Funny Pages. Though Steve knew he didn’t have the time, he stopped to stare at his own poorly drawn face: CAPTAIN AMERICA IN GERMANY! It proclaimed.

He left the paper with a disgusted shake of his head. At least if he died doing this, he could feel good about having served his country instead of selling war bonds and dramatically punching Herman over again. Herman played Hitler on account of being scrawny, weasel-looking, and paunchy. Herman hated Steve. Steve sighed as he carefully peeked into a third gun storage locker. It was impossible to explain to Herman that he had _been_ him, pre-serum. In fact, only a few months before he had weighed 96 pounds. The fact he had gained 100lbs of muscle and ten inches in height didn’t matter. Most people didn’t know about the serum. They only thought he was a good-looking actor paid to play a part.

There was a scuffle, and a groan, and Steve barged into another room. This one was large, with slabs on top of steel boxes. The floor was grates overlaying…

“Hello?” Steve whispered as he dropped to his knees.

“Fuck off,” said another voice derisively.

“I’m an American,” Steve said; and winced. It sounded so corny. Thankfully he had saved himself from saying: “I’m Captain America,” which would have been much worse.

“Yeah? From what company?” asked the suspicious voice again.

“From the camp across the way,” Steve said desperately. “Colonel Phillips sent me.”

“You’re a rotten liar,” came a second voice, snickering. “Colonel Phillips would never send anybody after us.”

“Fine, I came myself,” said Steve, casting around for a crowbar. “I’m looking for my friend, Bucky Barnes.”

There was a long silence, and the first voice said: “Oh good. He’s dumb _and_ suicidal.”

“We haven’t seen Buck for a couple of days,” said the second voice, and even through its hesitant exhaustion, it sounded apologetic.

Steve found a piece of metal and put it into the grate before pushing down. The metal bent like taffy under his hands, and the grate moved not at all.

“Who the fuck did you say you are?” demanded the first voice, moving toward the light so that Steve could see two huge blue eyes plastered on white skin above a pale mustache.

Steve drove his own fingers between the grate spaces and heaved bodily instead. The grate bent back like a sardine lid. He shrugged apologetically: “I’m Captain America.”

“Pass us a box or something,” said the blue eyes. “And we can get up.”

“Are you really a captain?” came the second voice, and he walked into the light. He was of average height, but his dark skin startled Steve; he had not yet run into a unit that was integrated.

The black man sneered, but Steve handed down the box quickly and offered him a hand up.

“I’m not really a captain,” he panted as he pulled the man to the lip of the ground one-handed. “My name is Steve Rogers. I’m just a kid from Brooklyn.”

The man grunted as he wormed his way onto the floor and staggered up, grabbing the first gun he could see. “Gabriel Jones,” he said flatly. “They took Buck about four days ago. They were going to take us all, we think, to experiment on.”

“Come on,” Steve called quietly to the first man. “Get everyone lined up.”

One Steve had pulled suspicious and swearing Timothy Dugan up, he left him and Gabe to get the rest out as he went to the next grate across the way.

“Who are you?” demanded a rough voice.

“Captain America,” he said wearily.

“Yeah, right,” said the voice sarcastically. “And I’m the Queen of England.”

“Well good morning your majesty,” said Steve, bending back the second grate to muttered sounds of surprise. “I’ll get you a stepstool.”

“Saints alive!” squeaked one of the youngest-looking soldiers Steve had ever seen.

“Call me Steve,” Steve corrected him. “I’m looking for James Barnes. Bucky? Bucky Barnes of the 107th?”

“This is the 107th,” said the rough voice. He had pulled himself out, and Steve knew at once this must be the ranking officer. He was about forty five with short grey hair and a slashed scar over one eye. His rank had been ripped from his shoulders out of protection, but the way the others circled him, Steve wasn’t fooled.

“Sergeant?” he asked formally.

“Yes sir,” the Sergeant said, jerking a hand to his forehead in a lazy sort of insolence. “My captain.”

Steve ignored him. “Have you seen Bucky?”

“Not since a week or more ago,” said the pip-squeaked voice.

“What’s your name, son?” Steve asked fairly.

“That’s Junior,” grunted the Sergeant. “He’s only just 17.”

“How’d you enlist?”

“Lied,” Junior responded promptly. “Put down my brother’s birth certificate instead of mine. Didn’t matter though. He died his first week of deployment in France.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” said Junior, in an unconcerned way that meant he had told the story too many times to get into the real emotion of it. “He was already in his third year at Princeton. I’d just gotten in.”

Steve squinted at his uniform. “Junior Juniper?” he asked, his mouth twisting.

“No, that’s just why I’m named Junior,” said the boy cheerfully. “Real name is Jonathan. I’m just glad I’m not Johnny boy.”

While Steve had been mechanically handing more men from the grates up to freedom, the sergeant had been scouting for weapons and passing them out. As the last man finally stood, the sergeant offered the largest to Steve.

“No thanks,” Steve said firmly. “You keep it. I don’t use guns.”

“This is a war,” said the Sergeant flatly. “Not a pacifist rally.”

“Well fine, then you use it,” said Steve, surveying the room for another exit. “And keep quiet. I’ve got to scout ahead.”

He left the Sergeant with Gabe, Junior, and the others. While he crept into the other room, he realized footsteps were dogging him from behind so he whirled, hand to catch a throat. As the blue eyes popped, he realized it was Timothy Dugan.

“What are you doing you –“ he bit off _dumb ass_ into “dum dum?”

“You need backup,” whispered Dugan hoarsely. “I’m the best grenade launcher in the company except Jim. But we haven’t seen him in a few days either.”

“Do you have any idea where they take them?”

Dugan shook his head. “Just that they go this way,” and he nodded his chin towards the empty corridor.

Steve grimaced. “That’s what I was afraid of. If you want to come, come. Are the others going to be okay?”

“Sergeant Fury has them in hand. He’ll rally them while we find the others.”

“Did you take a count?”

“No.”

“Can you guess how many are missing?”

“I’d say about half.”

“ _Half_?” Steve felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“They say the 107th has to always have 107 men. But I think it’s probably more. Like 120.”

“Do you know all of them?” Steve asked in amazement.

Dugan shrugged. “Do you know everybody in your school? You know them. You just don’t _know_ them.”

“You’re saying there are 120 Americans on this base and we’ve only found sixty of them?”

“Well a few died getting captured,” said Dugan harshly. “So maybe a few less. But once we have enough to form a fighting chance, we should get out while the going is good.”

“You need to arm yourselves,” Steve said under his breath as they crept down the eerily dark and empty hall, trying doors on the way. All of them were locked. He knew he would have to break them eventually but was hoping to find one open.

“Fury will find armaments.”

“I know where they are. You need to go back and show him.”

“Captain, I-“

“I’m not really a captain,” Steve muttered under his breath.

“Fine…Rogers. Wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“Well you need backup. You need a team.”

“I’ve got more strength than you realize.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dugan said flatly. “Everybody needs someone.”

“Get down.”

They both crouched at the sound of marching feet. Steve wondered if the feet always had to march on duty instead of trudge along at one in the morning.

“There are three gun closets the opposite direction of the hall where you were held,” Steve whispered. “Make everyone take as much and more as they can carry. If I find the other half, I’ll need all the ammo we can get.”

“How will we find you?”

“If you want to come after me, do it quietly. But if I find anyone well enough to walk, I’ll send them to you. You should all come up with a way to get us out. _That’s_ how I’m counting on you. My plan only goes so far as to get us in.”

“Jesus,” Dugan swore. “This has to be the worst fucking rescue mission I’ve ever been on.”

“Been _in_ ,” Steve corrected him irritably. “I’ve already rescued you.”

“Fuck off.”

“Well, are you going or not?”

“Yeah, I’m going.” His blue eyes sparkled maliciously. “Take care of yourself you dum-dum.”

Steve grinned as he rounded a corner and tried the eighth door. It was open.

The next twenty prisoners he found were in much worse shape. They had all been experimented on, and were all wounded or sick.

“What about him?” Steve demanded as they all pulled themselves weakly from their underground grated prison. There was still a form laying prostrate on the floor. “Is he alive?”

“Victor?” asked another, shaking his head. “Not for much longer. He’s bleeding bad. They injected him with something and threw him back in here when it became apparent he’s going to die.”

“We're leaving no man behind,” said Steve.

“But-“

“No man behind,” he warned. He clapped a hand on the young man on the shoulder. He was blonde, good looking, and scowling. “What’s your name, son?”

The soldier bristled. “Robert Ralston,” he spat. “Of the Kentucky Ralstons.”

“Well Kentucky Ralston, why don’t you lasso up Victor over there?” mocked Steve. He jabbed a finger into Ralston’s stomach. “You’re in charge of getting him out of here. Dead or alive. He better be in a stretcher or sling until I can see him.”

“But dead-“

“Dead or alive.”

“But-“

“No man gets left behind.”

“ _Fine_ ,” spat Ralston.

“Sergeant Fury and Dum Dum Dugan are in the next room down the straight hall,” he told him. “They all have weapons and are waiting to join up with you. Send one of your men back to them.”

Ralston, who had been very angrily sulking at being saddled with an impossible burden of saving an already (or soon to be) dead man, stiffened a little with the idea of “your men.” “Dum Dum Dugan?” he asked, his scowl turning up at the corner. “Pretty fitting name.”

“Where are the rest of you? I’m still missing about forty.”

“They sometimes don’t come back,” said another man, whose bloodied face and matted hair could not hide his thin mustache and good looks. His English was accented, European.

“Who are you?” asked Steve.

“Dino Manelli.”

“Italian?”

“My parents. I’m from New Jersey.”

“Brooklyn.”

“He’s from Julliard,” Ralston said in disgust.

“Born to be an actor,” panted Manelli with a crooked smile. “I will go and tell Fury where we are.”

“Can you even stand?” criticized Steve.

Manelli shook off the help his comrade had been giving him and stood up, scowling. “You think I’m going to die in this godforsaken German shithole? This is what I think of the Germans.”

He spat on the floor.

“Try not to slip,” said Steve dryly. “And pick up a gun or two if you can find one. They’re just back that way.”

He gave Manelli directions and made sure Ralston was lifting up the unconscious body with a tarp before going on.

He found twenty more in even worse shape than Ralston and Manelli. Many were missing fingers or ears, and all of them were feverish. They couldn’t tell if Steve was real. Bucky wasn’t among them. Steve tried not to let this worry him. Bucky wasn’t going to be dead. He left the most lucid one in charge – an English gentleman still trying to save face, though he was using a discarded umbrella to stand.

“Pinkerton,” Steve warned him. “You better all find Fury. You cannot leave anyone behind. Buddy up. Every best soldier takes on one of you.”

“You’re saying we aren’t the best?” laughed Pinkerton, a tad hysterically. “My dear boy I-“

But Steve was gone.

The last twenty soldiers were harder to find, both in location and in stomach. Steve began breaking in the rooms as quietly as he could; he was just thinking how fortunate it was that they hadn’t been discovered in this hour when he heard the first sound of gunfire.

In the first room, seven more soldiers were accounted for, but none of them were alive. Their bodies had been ripped, gutted, and disposed of like slaughtered animals in a pile of other carcasses. The way they had been left by a door leading outside suggested they would be carted to a trash heap…or an incinerator. Steve was careful to turn over all of the bodies and take their dog tags, each face coming into the light making him hitch his breath when he thought he found Bucky. Many of the bodies beneath the American soldiers were emaciated, wasted. They had gold stars or inverted triangles sewn into their prison jumpsuits. Steve knew he would find no identification for them.

The next room had six soldiers. Two were dead. The other four were barely breathing, but Dum Dum and Gabe had followed him along after being passed on by Ralston. They gestured him onwards and promised to send two more men to him once they got their fellows to safety.

“Izzy Cohen has hotwired a truck,” Gabe told Steve. “He’s a good guy. Best mechanic in our bunch. He’s going to take all the unconscious soldiers.”

“He needs a gunner if he’s driving,” Steve said absently. “Make sure you get Pinky up in there.”

“Pinky?” frowned Dugan.

“Either of you know Pinkerton? English? One busted leg?”

“Pinky is a good shot,” agreed Gabe. “A sharpshooter.”

“Well he can’t walk,” said Steve. “And I’ll bet we find a lot more who can’t.”

In the next room, there were four soldiers who all were strapped to tables in agony, their legs filled with bullets and shrapnel obviously purposefully placed there. They were so delirious from the pain, Steve couldn’t get anything sensible from any of them, save that one of their names was Daniel.

“Help is coming Dan,” Steve promised, and Junior, who had been running after him, was left in charge of finding men to haul them to Cohen’s truck.

Steve felt bitter acid in his mouth when he opened the last room; it was the first one he had run past and ignored because it was locked. He was only missing three of the 120, and Bucky was one of them. Steve wasn’t even sure 120 was the most accurate of numbers, but it’s what he had to go on. Inside, there were more machines and instruments than in any of the other – and Steve finally realized – laboratories. There were only two forms strapped to the steel boxes. The first soldier was dead, his eyes staring wildly. Half of his flesh had been peeled away from his bones and never put back, like a scientist had been digging in a sandbox for a fossil. Steve took his dog tags and tucked them with the others, feeling pity enough to shut the man’s eyes. He steeled himself for the next table, and his heart sank, unsurprised, when he saw that it was Bucky.

His eyes, at least, were closed, and his skin was intact save a few cuts, bruises, and burns around his forehead and temples. Bucky must have been one of the illness testers instead of injury. Steve hoped it had been quick. Maybe he had been out of his mind with fever, like some of the others. Steve doubted that many of the injured would even survive to cross enemy lines, if they managed to escape at all. The sounds of battle outside were growing now. The 107th was putting up a hell of a fight, and Steve knew he had to get back out there, or he would miss his ride.

He put a hand briefly on Bucky’s chest before he opened his uniform to find his dog tags. He jerked his hand back as if burned when the chest rose briefly, and fell.

“Jesus,” Steve ground out. He felt for a pulse. It was there. It was weak.

“Bucky?” he shook an arm hard. “Bucky!”

Bucky – miraculously – groaned.

Asleep. He had been _asleep_. Steve wanted to punch the air and jump for joy.

“Buck. Get up. Get up! We’ve got to go.”

Bucky’s eyes fluttered open. He focused on Steve for a long moment without recognition. “Steve?” but it was weak, unsure.

“Yeah. Buck. It’s me. Sit up. We’ve got to go.”

“Steve? What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you, of course.”

“Did you get taller?”

“There’s a lot to catch up on.”

“Wait-“ Bucky winced as his legs hit the ground, but one hand feebly tapped the steel box beneath the slab he had been strapped to. “We can’t forget Jim.”

“Jim?”

“The box.”

“Jim is the box?”

“No,” and Bucky managed to dredge up a full “you’re-an-idiot” stare that made Steve feel better about his mental health, even if his skin was burning under his fingertips. “Jim’s _in_ the box.”

Steve let go of Bucky long enough to force the heavy slab off the top of the steel box, and when he had, Steve gagged at the sight and smell.

Inside, strapped into immobility, was a man. He was sturdily built, with broad shoulders and thick eyebrows, and he was gagged. The entire box was drenched in fecal matter and urine. His eyes, however, were open, and were glaring balefully up at both of them.

Bucky looked impassively down. “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” he told him.

 


	2. A Canadian Among Americans

“Are there people in all the boxes?” Steve said faintly, looking back at the dead soldier, and then around to the other uninhabited, empty steel boxes with straps to their tops.

“They’re all dead,” rasped Jim; Bucky had just removed his gag.

“How do you know?” Steve asked.

“They’ve all suffocated.”

“I would imagine so,” Steve said distractedly, looking at one box in the corner that had been rent apart like a bomb had gone off on the inside.

“That was the kid’s box,” Jim said, hauling himself weakly from the box and almost tipping it to the floor.

“The kid?”

Bucky looked over at Steve. “They experiment on kids too, how sick is that?”

Steve didn’t have time for this. “We’ve got to go. I think I’ve found all of you.”

“There were a few more,” Jim said, not seeming to care if he stank like a sewer – or more accurately – like a prisoner of war trapped in a box for days on end. “But they’re dead now. We were some of the first tested, and some died in capture.”

Outside a huge detonation shook the floor, and the three of them looked at each other.

“Can you walk?” Steve asked Jim.

“I’ll live,” said Jim shortly.

Steve slung his arm under Bucky, who was wavering on his feet badly. “Then find a weapon. You’ll be our cover. We’re supposed to meet back up with Sergeant Fury.”

Jim snorted derisively as he cracked his knuckles. “You want to leave these kids here?”

“Do you know where they keep them?” Bucky asked bitterly. “You think they’re still alive?”

Jim looked away, grinding his teeth, but nodded his assent. They made their way through the lab as the night sky outside lit with the light of grenade stars, the aftershock images imprinting on their memories more than their retinas. In the hall they met the actor Manelli. He was bleeding from both sides of his head now and looked ghastly. He broke into a wide grin upon seeing them.

“You goddamned lucky bastard,” he laughed, clapping Jim on a shoulder and immediately wincing at the stench of him. “We all thought you were dead.”

“Can’t nobody kill me that easily,” scoffed Jim. “You got a smoke?”

“Soldiers,” Steve gritted his teeth. “This is a war zone.”

“Yeah? So? Smoking steadies the nerves Cap,” Jim said, and Steve was a little unnerved about how calmly he was taking his recent capture, release, and imminent firefight.

Bucky could tell. He leaned in and whispered, “Jim’s always like that. Always lucky by the skin of his teeth. We keep trying to tell him he’s going to get it one day. That there’s a gun carrying a bullet for him somewhere, but he just laughs it off. Says no bullet’s coming for him.”

“He’s your bombardier?” Steve asked through gritted teeth.

“He gets closer than anyone else will,” admitted Bucky as Manelli handed Jim two semi-automatic weapons. “Says he can dance back from the fire. Is more accurate that way.”

“Jesus,” Steve swore beneath his breath. “That’s all we need right now. A man with a death wish.”

“I don’t have a death wish,” said Jim irritably; his hearing was obviously excellent. He nodded at a door and Manelli kicked it open, and they preceded Steve and Bucky outside into the night air, where every sound magnified tenfold. “I’m just not afraid of dying.”

“Must be nice,” Manelli said offhandedly as he skirted out of the way of an arterial spray that drenched the wall behind him six feet high. “I’m terrified of it. There’s no Shakespearean honor in dying like that.”

He gestured with an elbow at the leftover leg stumps that had slowly collapsed in front of them.

“There’s no honor in dying at all,” grunted Bucky.

“Come on boys,” grinned Steve, feeling reckless now that his plan was succeeding. “Where’s your patriotism? Fighting for America!”

Jim tackled the three of them to the ground as a hail of bullets hit them all. Steve felt something hit him so hard in the chest he thought he might have died for an instant before he could smell the acid burning of batteries. The radio had stopped a bullet meant for his heart.

Steve winced, glancing up in trepidation at Jim’s face, slack in death. He would have taken the brunt of the bullets for all of them. Steve’s estimation rose hugely posthumously for the man. He hadn’t felt he would be much of a team player, much less save the three of their lives. To Steve’s shock, Jim’s breath was still coming ragged and hot on all three of their faces as he scrabbled for Manelli’s dropped gun. He slapped Steve’s face once with a wicked and terrifyingly feral grin.

“But I’m Canadian,” he growled, and rolled off of them, returning fire with a riot of laughter.

“He’s fucking insane,” Bucky said admiringly. “I mean, I knew that, what with him living in the box below me as they-“ he glanced over at Steve, shutting his mouth.

“Come on Buck. Manelli, we’ve got to get through the building. I’m going to take as much of it as I can with me.”

“Is there anyone left inside?” Manelli panted, and Steve shook his head.

“Everyone left is dead,” he said shortly. “And I got their tags.”

“Good man. Go. I’ll stay with the crazy bastard.” He nodded somewhat affectionately toward Jim, the way a neighbor might towards a very ugly cat that hung around under the front porch.

Steve thought about Lucky Jim while he slung Bucky under his shoulder. Jim liked fighting. Not in the way Steve liked it: with the thrill of serving his country. Jim liked fighting in that he liked the way jaws breaking under his hands felt. Steve tried not to think it was only one step to liking killing. He wasn’t who would serve well as a commander. Negligent risk, needless recklessness, he didn’t have the temperament to be a soldier, only the appetite for it.

He and Bucky worked their way through the laboratory, meeting Dr. Zola on their way through toward the car barn. There was a painful moment on the bridge; Steve made sure to push Bucky first.

A Nazi scientist cornered them. Privately, Steve thought Johann Schmidt could rival Dr. Mengele.1 Perhaps they were buddies, experimenting on children and leaving their bodies on the floor of warehouses. Something about the way that Schmidt watched him during the confrontation, with a sort of interested hunger, made Steve’s skin crawl. He and Bucky got out of the collapsing building just in time into the utter chaos outside.

There were at least four trucks being driven by various men of the 107th, one of which was being driven by Sergeant Fury, whose cut over his eye had been re-inflicted so that blood streamed down his face in a half mask. The men had also commandeered a tank, which Steve only suspected from the fact that it was inflicting maximum damage on German property as it could.

“Get the wounded on this truck!” called Ralston bossily. In the firefight flashes, Steve could see that he was only a little over twenty. Unexpectedly, his heart hurt, watching young men who should be in college, should be going on dates, should be going to the movies, going dancing, getting milkshakes, killing and being killed, and as he watched mutely, the man behind handed up to Ralston was blown away between the two holding him in a sling, leaving just his legs in one pair of hands, and his arms in another. They both dropped the body parts immediately, running without fuss to the next injured soldier unable to walk.

“107th!” bellowed Sgt. Fury. “MOVE OUT!”

The three trucks of wounded and the tank began their inexorable march towards the ranks of bullets, of Nazis with guns. Lucky Jim was filthy; he had rolled in nearby mud with Manelli to disguise their colors and were sneaking up to Nazi groups and hooking them with grenades, or simply slitting their throats before running madly into the darkness while shot at.

“Get him into the truck,” Steve told Ralston.

“I want to fight,” Bucky argued stubbornly.

“Buck, you can barely stand,” scoffed Steve.

“I’m not dead.”

“Yet.”

“Give me a gun!”

“Get in the truck.”

“Gun!”

“Truck!”

Bucky got his gun, and then got in the truck, agreeing to be the lookout from the back while Pinkerton used a subatomic machine gun out the passenger side window next to a man Steve assumed was Izzy Cohen, as Gabe had promised.

Dugan and Gabe were in Fury’s truck, each hanging out of the front window and the back. Little Junior was on Dugan’s other side holding a gun that looked heavier than he was. As Steve watched, it launched a small bazooka and destroyed an outbuilding to the cheers of the men on foot.

“Come on!” Steve called to the rest of the infantry. “We have the advantage once we’re out of the gates!”

The gates flattened beneath the tank, and Steve called to the men he recognized. “Ralston! Manelli! Ralston, bring another commander!”

Three men ran up, the other two covered in powder and dust, but glancing askance at Manelli’s appearance.

“Steve Rogers,” Steve said briefly while the new man smirked over his costume prop helmet.

“Eric Koenig,” said the new man in a broad New York accent. He had curly dark hair, was stocky and of average height, and looked constantly and furiously around him, distracted from any one task.

“Brooklyn?” asked Steve hopefully, but Koenig spat, rubbing his face clear of sweat and dirt.

“Queens.”

“Koenig’s a pilot,” Ralston said helpfully.

“We don’t have a plane,” Manelli said, astonished by Ralston’s stupidity.

“We need men on the ground, guerilla tactics,” Steve said at once.

“Well in case you haven’t noticed,” drawled Ralston sarcastically. “We are outmanned and outgunned in every way. All they have to do is shoot out the tires.”

“The trucks only have to roll; they don’t have to be intact,” Steve said grimly.

“And the walls of the truck are made out of canvas,” sneered Koenig. “Those bastards will just finish their jobs.”

“Well we need a distraction,” Steve said desperately. “You’re my three captains. I need you to gather the teams between you and wreak as much havoc as you absolutely can to give the tank and the trucks the time to gun it as fast as they can toward the line.”

“The trucks shouldn’t leave the men behind,” argued Ralston at once. “They’ll lead the Nazis straight to our doorstep.”

“Well they only have to outrun a chase,” Manelli disagreed. “Once we get somewhere, we can walk back to camp.”

“Here’s the idea. We need a fore, rear, and two flank guards,” Steve said firmly.

“I’ll take rear,” Koenig volunteered unexpectedly.

Steve didn’t argue; rear guard was the worst, most deadly position. He wouldn’t assign it to a man who didn’t volunteer. He had planned leading it himself. He did add: “Take Jim with you.”

As a group, the four turned to follow the sound of loud, cackling laughter as Jim ran from three armed Nazis, firing pistols repeatedly, and somehow missing every shot.

“That crazy bastard,” sighed Koenig.

“He’s good at what he does,” Manelli offered. “He’s saved my life about ten times today.”

“And mine,” Steve added.

“Fine,” Koenig sighed. “I’m rear guard. That means _Captain America_ here,” and he sneered the title. “Should probably be fore guard.”

“I’m left handed,” smiled Manelli wispily at Ralston’s immediately opened mouth. “If you want to take right flank.”

Ralston snapped his mouth shut, surprised. “Fine,” he agreed after a moment.

“Then what are you all still standing around for?” Steve bellowed, and they dispersed, Steve sprinting to get ahead of the lead truck, pointing at soldiers at random and calling, “To me! You, come here! Sh-“ as one dropped and a bullet narrowly missed his ear. A spatter of machine gun fire over his head took out a line of advancing Germans and Pinky, whose leg was obviously broken as it was propped an ugly, crooked way on the passenger dash of a truck, laughed out at him.

“Still alive, America?”

“Shut up, English,” Steve retorted, and felt a wrench in his heart. That’s what people called Peg behind her back.

The next second, he was blown off his feet by machine gun fire. There was the thump of twin feet, and Steve cracked his eyes open to see Dugan standing over him protectively, sweeping bullets in a long arc over him. Steve hadn’t realized it looking down into the pit, but Dugan was enormous. At least six foot four and three hundred pounds, his arms and shoulders were the size of Steve’s own (and already enlarged) legs.

“Okay down there?” he called.

“I’m okay,” Steve grunted.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Infantry is in four guards around the trucks,” Steve managed, gratefully taking the hand up Dugan offered him and wincing when he brushed his wrist and burned it against the still-smoking barrel of the large shotgun.

“Your in the fore?”

“Yeah.”

“Sarge! Stop the truck!” called Dugan.

“No,” Steve tried to pant, jogging after Dugan to Sgt. Fury, who was gritting his teeth in the driver’s mirror as he watched Steve approach. The blood on his face had dried and cracked as he frowned.

Across from him Gabe sighted his sharpshooter gun and carefully picked off Nazis hiding behind tree trunks of the forest.

“Guerilla tactics?” guessed Fury at once, seeing Steve.

“Yes sir.”

“Dugan?” Fury snapped.

“Permission to be fore truck,” said Dugan at once.

Fury shook his head. “Jones is our best shooter,” he said gesturing at the black man beside him. “And now that we’re getting away from the lights of the compound, we’ll need the best eyes to any followers.”

“Who’s in the other truck?” Dugan asked Steve.

“Pinky,” said Steve at once, then cleared his throat at the sergeant’s lifted eyebrow and amended: “Pinkerton.”

“Damn fine shot,” Gabe said approvingly. “What’s he firing?”

“Subatomic machine gun.”

“Wide range, good spread,” Dugan argued.

Fury sighed. “Fine. Who’s on his aft?”

“Barnes,” Steve said again, sticking to Bucky’s surname.

“Who’s leading that guard?”

“Koenig,” Steve said promptly.

Fury shook his head. “That crazy bastard’s got a screw loose.”

Steve frowned, thinking of the serious if disinterested Koenig.

“Who else is with him?” asked Dugan hastily, when Steve opened his mouth to ask.

Steve shot him a look: “Jim.” He winced; he didn’t know his surname.

“Jim who?” grunted Fury. “We’ve got about fifty Jims.”

“Lucky Jim,” said Steve desperately, crouching when Dugan shoved him hard between the shoulderblades and Germans took a shot through the window and broadside of the truck.

“Who’s my left flank!” demanded Fury loudly.

“Sorry, sir!” Manelli shouted back.

“Crush them!”

“Yessir!”

Fury put the truck in motion again for safety, but only rumbled along the forest path so that Dugan and Steve could jog alongside. “You’ve got Howlett on rear with Koenig?”

“They won’t know what hit them,” Gabe whistled softly.

Steve opened his mouth again, a frown etching his face, but Fury waved him off this time.

“Good choices for your rear. You’re the fore?”

“Yes.”

“Manelli’s on left.”

“And Ralston on right.”

“ _Ralston_?” Fury snorted. “The kid from Kentucky?”

“It’s not like I had my pick of people,” Steve said testily. “I only know a dozen or so names, and people keep dying right and left.”

“Fine. If we last to dawn, I doubt they’ll be anyone left to follow us. They got any vehicles left?”

Steve smiled in spite of himself, licking sweat from the corner of his mouth as he jogged faster as the truck sped up, leading the other two trucks and the tank coming in the rear. “No sir, Bucky and I got them.”

“Good man,” Fury said, and for the first time his faint sarcastic was disdain was replaced with grudging approval.

“Sir!” It was Junior, hanging out the back, and he threw the discarded bazooka down in the bed next to some of the men.

“Juniper?” barked Fury.

“I could really use Dugan back here!” Junior’s voice sounded anxious. “We’ve got a mounted cycle squadron coming up the rear!”

Behind them, there were shouts from the tank; it had ground to a halt. Steve could hear Jim Howlett shouting; machine guns going; a gas tank exploding, and then he was on the ground, seeing stars and stripes.

“They’re coming around to the fore!” shouted Fury, quickly backing his vehicle around so that Dugan could shoot the other way while Gabe tried to mow down several cyclists. There were also jeeps with commanding officers, and Steve felt, with a sinking heart, that they would soon – in minutes – be irretrievably surrounded now that they had lost the tank, and the only three vehicles were loaded with the wounded.

Because of Fury’s maneuvering, Steve was standing next to Junior, who looked very pale under his freckles.

“It’ll be okay,” Steve felt compelled to say.

“I was up next,” Junior mumbled.

“What?”

“Up next for the testing,” he clarified. He glanced sidelong at Steve. “How many of them did you find dead?”

Steve was silent a moment. “Almost twenty.”

“That would be the first group. The only one who survived, I think, was Howlett.”

“He’s called lucky for a reason.”

“Were the bodies…were they awful?” Junior’s voice quavered. “D-did they…did they suffer?”

Steve wanted to lie. Wanted to tell Junior that upon his capture he would be fine, be held as POW until their release was negotiated. But he also knew Colonel Phillips was typing up their death letters for a reason. There were no negotiations.

Junior saw his face and laughed a small, hysterical laugh in the strangely echoing silence. Steve realized most everyone had stopped shooting, gazing at the stand off between the Germans and the very large rocket launcher held atop their main convoy. It was pointed straight at Fury’s truck.

“We need reinforcements,” muttered Steve.

“Nobody’s coming for us,” Junior whispered miserably. He looked up. “Before you…I thought…I never thought that-“

Steve looked at him compassionately. “I leave no man behind,” he promised. “If we get out of this, I promise I will carry you the entire way if I have to.”

“Won’t be hard,” Junior said with a whisp of a smile. “I’m only 124.”

Steve shook his head in wonderment. “They must have been short when they recruited you. I tried signing up six times.”

“I’m from…” Junior blushed.

“Where?” Steve felt that keeping the kid talking was keeping them both from going crazy under the murderous stares of the soldiers, also conversing amongst themselves how best to capture them with minimal loss of life.

“It’s such a small town, you’d never know it.”

“In New York?”

“No. I’m from Vermont.”

“Vermont?”

“Yeah. It’s why I got to enlist so easily. There weren’t many recruits in my district. Almost all the guys in my year did what I did. It would have been shameful to be left behind.”

Steve felt a twinge of guilt. He knew exactly what Junior meant. He tried to remind himself he was serving his country now. If not with selling war bonds, at least in this one, probably futile, endeavor. If only Peggy were with him. She had twice the experience he did – probably infinitely more. She would be able to come up with a plan.

 _Peggy_.

Steve’s thoughts were electric, and he fumbled with the box in his breast pocket quickly.

“ _Nien! Anschlag!”_ shouted a guard.

Steve ignored him and went to pull out the radio Peggy had given him. She said she and Howard would send planes; whatever they needed. He could call in an airstrike. He could get them home.

“ _Anschlag_!” screamed the guard more fiercely, his handgun cocked at Steve’s head. He was less than four feet away; a sure shot.

Steve didn’t have time to be cautious. He jerked the radio out, ripping his pocket slightly, and flinched when the shot rang out just in time for him to process that the radio was beyond repair, much less contact. He waited for death calmly, thinking of Peg. It didn’t come. In the wavering seconds of his brain moving in slow-time, he watched, surprised and confused, as the guard toppled slowly backwards, a look of equal surprise on his face as blood bloomed from his chest.

Steve glanced over his shoulder; Junior was heaving hugely, face white as a sheet, lips trembling. In his still outstretched hand he held a smoking pistol.

The single shot broke the mood. Instantly, the bazooka fired, and Fury’s tires squealed as he floored the gas running straight for the barricade of motorcycles, men flinging themselves to freedom in time before the truck barreled toward the offender. The bazooka drove a shell six feet into the ground, and took some of the American 107th with them to their pre-dug grave.

Steve dragged a shell-shocked Junior along with him into the trees. More men from his foreguard met him running; they had been hiding behind the line of sight, watching the standoff with baited breath.

“What do we do, Captain?” asked one anxiously. Steve heard no malice or derision in his fearful voice. It was hard to see in the darkness, but he tried to turn his head as if he could.

“We a distraction,” he said again. “Or reinforcements. But we don’t have either.”

Junior was retching weakly, vomit splattering the black ground with wet sounds. The clearing rang weirdly with the screams of dying men, yet the chunked spatter was clearly audible. He began mumbling the Lord’s Prayer to himself.

“ _I will fear no evil_ ,” he hiccupped, and he sounded close to crying.

“If you’re going to recite the Bible, at least give us some verses about David or Gideon,” called another man. “The real warrior types. The ones who always beat the odds!”

“Joshua felling the walls of Jericho!” called another voice.

Steve was silent a moment. There was something oddly…similar. “Tell me the story of Gideon,” he said, rushed.

Junior finally unbent, his wide green eyes looking scared and confused in the darkness even so close that Steve could smell the sick on his breath. “What?”

“Tell us the story of Gideon,” Steve said again.

“Gideon was a warrior of God,” and the way Junior said it, mechanically, woodenly, Steve suspected it was learnt by rote for a small town church and a strict Sunday school program. “He was chosen to be special among men. One day Gideon frightened his enemy with a great raucous noise –“

“The Walls of Jericho,” Steve interrupted. “They fell.”

Junior obediently switched stories without stopping for breath: “For seven days and nights, they blew their horns.”

“That’s it,” Steve said into the sudden quiet.

“We’re going to _scare_ that Nazis away with Bible stories?” said someone skeptically.

“We’re going to shout at them?” asked another, more helpfully.

“No,” said Steve grimly. “We’re going to howl at them.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Obviously nothing in fictional literature can rival the horrors of Auschwitz and the experiments performed there. However, Johann Schmidt was written to be a contemporary of Mengele for the comics in a time period (1950s) where his involvement would be universally known and hated. Additionally, Max Eisenhardt (later Magneto, alias Erik Lehnsherr) was supposedly experimented on by Red Skull/Weapon X/HYDRA actually in Warsaw, Poland at Auschwitz after his parents and sister were exterminated by Nazis and buried in a mass grave from which he pretended to be dead and attempted to escape. (In many ways, and in my opinion, Max/Magneto really is more of an antihero than an antagonist the more one learns of his relatable and horrifying past. His stance on a mutant registry and the Sentinels becomes much more comprehensible and sympathetic).


End file.
